


Fever

by Dorkjitsu



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6869314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkjitsu/pseuds/Dorkjitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Orig. published 2007) April's sick and Don returns the favor of sick-sitting, but do things go too far?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

I knew, just knew that it would happen eventually.   
  
My work scatters me across the globe at times, searching for artifacts and retrieving precious materials for the private collection of one enthusiast or another who would rather not stain their own clothes with sweat and adventure. Even with my meticulous upkeep of proper vaccinations, it was inevitable that I would contract an illness and find myself laid up and helpless in my own bed.   
  
Only, I'm not in my bed at the moment. In our on again, off again relationship, it seemed that Casey and I were off much more than we were on. This meant that even in my hour of stomach-rolling, head-squeezing, muscle-constricting misery, I need to be strong. Hence, my bewildered stumble to the stove in search for a small pot to boil water for tea. It's possible that I shouldn't be playing with heat-related electrical equipment as my mind battles between the effects of the fever and the prescribed fever reducer, but dammit if I can't live without some chamomile tea right now. My head feels as if it were being squeezed from all sides, like a diver descending too deeply into that bone-crushing pressure. My joints ache, as if suffering from that same tyrannical weight, and the medications are making me feel a little out there. Or is that my 103 temperature?   
  
Dengue fever, at its best. Thank you, Bolivia.   
  
I'm warm, too warm. I can feel the back of my tank top cling to me, yet the strands of hair that escape the messy bun don't stick to my neck. Am I misinterpreting the feel of wet cotton at my back? No, satin. I'm wearing a light green satin pajama set, not cotton. No wonder I thought that the feel was strange. That's worse than searching for your glasses when they're on top of your head. All right April, time for bed. Right after tea.   
  
My hand shakes as I carry the pot, now filled with a few cups of water, over to the stove. The muscles in my arm constrict with pain and I drop it, barely managing to step back as it hits the floor with a clang and a splash. Well, damn.   
  
"Are you all right, April?"   
  
I can't help but to jump at the sound. They're ninja and have certainly caught me off guard before, but I can easily recognize their voices and rarely act truly surprised. Not by now. Something must have shown on my face, maybe some of the craze or frustration that I felt, for Donatello quickly closed the window and came to my side. Did I look as bad as I felt? Don's overly concerned expression told me that yes, yes I did.   
  
"April?"   
  
I grabbed a dish towel from the counter and sat on the floor to mop up the mess, not trusting myself to stoop over. I frowned as the blue cloth looked like fuzzy water, a moving puddle in my hand. Hallucinations were not good. But then, this doesn't count as a full-fledged hallucination, does it? More like a slight alteration of reality. Don comes to kneel on the floor beside me, and I realize that it's twice now I've not responded. I take in a deep breath as my hand slows in its mopping circles. "That collection of native ceremonial masks weren't the only things I brought home from Bolivia." I looked up at his still concerned eyes with a smile. "Dengue fever, the doctor said."   
  
His eyes widen almost comically, and I would chuckle if I didn't think that I already appear unstable enough as it is. He looks around the room quickly, as if he expects some nurse maid to run to my aid. His voice is just as worried for me as his eyes. "And they let you leave the hospital?"   
  
I toss the soaked rag into the sink, and it actually makes it. I offer him a reassuring smile. "Of course. It's not a severe case. I've actually had all of my shots, and they've given me some expensive-sounding medication."   
  
I make to grab the leg of the kitchen table so that I can climb up, but a pair of strong arms lift me gently to my feet instead. They linger, as if afraid that I'll fall without them. I start to twist around so that I can talk to him face to face, but his voice stops me. Apparently, I can't listen and move at the same time. "Why didn't you call us? I for one, wouldn't mind staying here the night to help you through this."   
  
That's Donny, all right: sweet, compassionate, a giver among his brothers. I fight the urge to relax into his arms; they're warm and safe and something to wrap around me. A sign that I should be in bed, no doubt. I turn away from him, pulling out of his loose arms and setting the pot in the empty sink. "I planned on staying in bed most of the time, Don. I just wanted some chamomile tea. There's really no need for a babysitter."   
  
Don grasps the pot, rinses it, and fills it with water before setting it on the stove. Show off. "A companion, then. Besides, you looked after me the last time that I was sick. I even mutated into a raving beast and destroyed two of your doors- I don't think you could be more trouble than that if you tried."   
  
I laugh softly and allow myself to fall into one of the kitchen chairs, perhaps a little too quickly. I give a nod and a grateful smile. After all, there are worse fates than to have a caring friend dote on you.   
  
Don pulls out a chair and sits at the table with me as we wait for the water to boil. My eyes drift around a bit, refusing to focus due to my head attempting its impression of instantaneous implosion. My sight settles on a calming sea of light green and I think that I'm staring at my own pajamas until it shifts. My eyes focus again, and I realize that I've been staring vacantly at Donatello. I give him a wry grin and think to share my observation. "My pajamas are nearly the same shade as your skin."   
  
Now that concerned look gives way to an amused one as he replies, "Nearly."   
  
"It's a lovely shade." And it is. Why else would I have bought them? His features soften at that and he looks down to the table top, hiding a small smile. That look makes me happy, I realize. A little bit of warmth spreads through my chest and I find that I'm wearing a gentle smile of my own. I hear my voice before I can activate that brain-mouth filter that seems to be laxing in its duties. "You're lovely."   
  
I fight the urge to drop my eyes to the table. It seems that thought before speech isn't going to be major factor in any of tonight's discussions.   
  
He stares at me with eyes a little too wide, a little too surprised. That ruffles me a bit; why would he be so shocked by a compliment about his...physical...appearance. It occurs to me that I've never complimented any of them on their appearance, nor have I heard anyone else do so. They're always making friendly comments on my good hair days, my outfits, my appearance in general. I had always taken it as the boys being gentlemen, and return the gesture with an appreciative smile and a touch of modesty. I had never considered returning the compliment, most likely because they were guys, and guys aren't quite so high maintenance. As Don's eyes return to the table top, I realize the possibility that the only feedback on their appearance has been then cringes, fear, and even screams of the people who catch a glimpse of them in the night.   
  
My heart aches at the thought.   
  
I reach a hand out across the table to rest on his arm, causing him to raise his gaze to my own. My voice is quiet, sincere, "You're beautiful, Don."   
  
I don't get a smile or another bashful look. He seems uncomfortable, almost painfully so. A hint of sadness darkens his eyes, and I can't understand where it's come from. My mouth opens for an inquiry, but he stands abruptly and busies himself with bringing down two mugs from the cupboard. I know that the water hasn't called him away- it's hot enough for tea, I'm sure, but it can't be boiling. Nonetheless, he fishes out a couple of tea packets and pours the steaming water over them, adding the honey that he knows I prefer over sugar. His name escapes me softly, confused.   
  
He turns around with a smile on his face now. For all the world, it really does look genuine. "It's nothing, you've got a fever. You need to lie down right after this."   
  
I suppose his first compliment really shouldn't have been from someone who was fever-induced and medicated to the point of minor hallucinations. I can understand that, but it doesn't make my words any less true. I rest my cheek in my hand and frown at him. "That only means that I'm speaking without thinking, blurting things out without considering how it must sound. Feeling unwell doesn't make me into a liar."   
  
He gives a little smile that's half apologetic, half humoring as he sets a cup down in front of me and reclaims his seat at the table. I shoot him another thorough frown and cup my hands around the warmth. My eyes wander lower to the table and suddenly the world is in waves, perception rolling and contorted as if looking through a veil of steam...   
  
That's right. There's steam rising from my cup. Get a grip, April.   
  
When I raise my eyes from the swirling world, I notice that Don's still staring at me with a look that I can't quite understand. Of course, coherence is proving to be a difficulty right now, anyway. The fact that I can't read that look irks me, and I feel the need to elaborate on my statement and his doubt. "It's just that society...it's not really the norm for women to compliment on a male's appearance unless it's flirting. I mean, it happens...I've just had so many creep-experiences with guys who've taken it the wrong way, that I grew out of the habit years ago." Hm, my articulation seems to be suffering. But if Donatello's noticed, which of course he has, he's not letting on; he's staring at me with that same impassive look yet I still get the uncanny feeling that he's hanging on my every word. "So just because I haven't said it before, it doesn't make it not true. Er..untrue."   
  
It's hard to sound convincing when you're feeling spacey, but I think I did an acceptable job. His expression doesn't change, but his voice is deceptively normal. "So, you see me as just another male that you don't want to accidentally make a pass at?"   
  
I open my mouth to protest and an incoherent beginning stumbles out...but I don't know what I want to say. I pause with my mouth still open, blink, then close my mouth. What can I possibly say to that? Agree that that I've immediately dismissed the possibility of romantic interest from day one? That's...prejudice of me and insulting to him. Yet here I am, lumping him in the category of non-interest guys. I can feel my brow furrow as I try to burn a hole in the table top with my gaze. My voice is soft, apologetic and sincere. "I...I guess so, Don. I hadn't realized it, but I have been dismissing you into that category."   
  
Now I must be having one of those full-fledged hallucinations. He's got this big, satisfied smile on his face that brings to mind the euphemism of the cat that ate the cannery. He must have picked up on my confusion, because the wattage goes down just a degree or two and he visibly relaxes into a more natural posture. "A snake can be beautiful, April."   
  
Now he was bringing snakes into the conversation? I should have been in bed an hour ago, and now Don's running me through a game of mental connect-the-dots. Somehow, I doubt that the end picture will have anything to do with serpents. I just shake my head slightly and drink at my tea, hoping that when it's gone, it will be time for blissful oblivion. Movement catches my eye and I do a double-take of the counter-top, but nothing's there.   
  
"I can see that I'm losing you." There's a creak of a wooden chair. By the time I turn my head to look, a process that seems to take a little longer than usual, Don was gone. I look around a few times, turning the kitchen into a blur of whites, pinks, and greens. Picking out Donatello would have been a lot easier if I hadn't picked up that green dishtowel set from the new supermarket down the road. There's a warm hand on my shoulder, and I stop moving my head. Instead, I cradle it in my hands as a suffering sound escapes. My vision clears just in time to see Don snake an arm beneath my knees as another slides between my back and the chair. He lifts me seemingly without effort, and I rest my head on the smooth and slightly warm chest-plates. As we move from the kitchen and into the living room, Don appears to be giving me the benefit of the doubt and continues the discussion.   
  
"A snake can be beautiful, just like a tiger, or a shark." I wonder idly if his examples are all lethal because of personal preference, the subconscious effects of ninja training, or just coincidence. I realize with a start that just because I paused for reflection, it doesn't mean that he hesitated in his speech. "...so when you said that, I knew that it could go both ways. A beautiful creature that's also a person, or someone that you may see as an attractive male even without the personal physical attraction attached."   
  
I murmur to him in affirmation, though it sounds much louder in my own head. "You're attractive."   
  
It's darker, and I realize that we must be in the bedroom. I almost have the chance to worry about him misstepping in the lack of light before I remember all of who and what he is. I can hear the soft smile in his voice as it floats quietly from nothingness. "That means a lot to me, though I doubt you'll remember much in the morning. It may be for the better."   
  
That's strange. Does he think that I'll be embarrassed once I have a clearer head? He rests me on the bed and his arms slide out from beneath my body slowly, sensually. The bed is so soft, it's like sinking into a sea of comfort and safety and sweet, snuggly bliss. The bed depresses beside me with Don's weight and I have a moment to wonder what he's doing before I feel it- his hands, cool and lightly textured, run up my legs, thighs, over my hips. I shudder as they travel over my stomach and across my breasts.   
  
I doubt you'll remember much in the morning. It may be for the better.   
  
Was he? Why wasn't I saying anything? Along with the gliding hands comes a weight on top of me, and I shift beneath him. Did it feel so very good because of the medication, or because it was Don? My eyes were closed against the sensations, then I feel them: a kiss at my throat, at my collarbone. A mouth covering mine, yet I have no problems finding breath. Hands roam my body and I dont fight it- I probably won't remember in the morning, right? And it feels so good right now. My body grows warm, and he fed to that warmth, touching at just the right spots to make me sing with pleasure. It was ethereal, ghosting hands and promising kisses, caresses below and tightness. It was beyond anything I had ever experienced...worked, worked to the edge of consciousness, then over, in a swirling trip of Don, pleasure, and carnal desire. My grip was slipping on thought, coherency, consciousness. Then I was lost to the world.   
  
Morning came and went, though I wasn't a witness. I manage to drag myself out of bed by late afternoon, the severe sickness having retreated to the comparably more tolerable strength to that of a common cold. Dryness clawing at my throat, a tall glass of water is the only thing on my mind as I shuffle out into the living room on my way to the kitchen. That is, until the sight of Donatello reclining on my couch stops me dead in my tracks as a rush of memory threatens to consume me. He looks up from the program he's watching with a smile. "Feeling better?"   
  
It's my turn to stare expressionless as I gather my thoughts. Last night...it was...what happened? Yeah, those thoughts aren't really gathering too well. Luckily, when I speak, the parched strain covers any emotion or fear. "...What was that last night, Don?"   
  
Anxiety began to creep up my spine- had I slept with one of my best friends? Don would never take advantage of someone, but had I unwittingly sent out an invitation in my fever-induced stupor? He gave a nod and leaned back, apparently satisfied that if I were coherent enough to ask questions, then I was free to walk around my own home. "Well, we talked for a little while, then I took you to bed and sat with you for a little bit. Though really, after I pulled the covers over you and tucked you in, and after you squirmed a bit, you were out like a light. Did you sleep well?"   
  
Covers. That heavy blanket at the foot of the bed that's more for decoration than use- no wonder it seemed too heavy. That's what glided up my body, and the rest was a dream. I feel my cheeks heat up at the realization that I'd had the most satisfying, most pleasurable of erotic dreams about none other than Donatello. He gets this shy little smile as he sees my deep blush, bright against my pale skin no doubt. He look away and rubs at the back of his head. "I knew you'd be embarrassed once you remembered."   
  
I think I'll let the assumption stand, this time.


End file.
